


Valley Forge (And what absolutely didn't happen)

by Madame_Marauder



Series: Sam Jones [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Crack, Crossdressing for the sake of disguise, Historical accuracy? What's that?, I was sleep-deprived, I'm Sorry, Obliterating history, Or betaed, Other, Please don't judge me, This wasn't proofread, Valley Forge, lowkey gay, okay?, playing fast and loose with pronouns, written at 3 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:17:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Marauder/pseuds/Madame_Marauder
Summary: Alternate Title: Why The Author Shouldn't Be Allowed to Write While TiredI don't even fucking know anymore. This is shit. I'm sorry.In which a non-existent historical figure based off of real historical badasses nearly singlehandedly saves the revolutionary army, a certain fluffy smol bean, and other shit.





	

     _It's a hard ride, and a near-ridiculous task,_ she thought. _But worth it if I can pull this off._

    Samantha Johnson ran a hand through her newly-shoulder length hair and sighed as she crested the hill. Shabby huts and ragged tents filled the valley she looked over, and she pulled her father's coat tighter around her just looking at the freezing camp.

    She patted her horse reassuringly, and headed down the hill.

 

    “Who are you?” demanded the rail-thin sentry. Sam snorted at the thought that he would be able to stop anyone but perhaps at most an apathetic five year old.

    “Samuel Jones,” she lied smoothly, the familiar lie rolling off her tongue. “I need to speak to someone- one of the General’s aides, Hamilton perhaps?”

    The sentry stared at her suspiciously, but waved over a fellow soldier and sent him deeper into camp.

    He returned a while later, and Sam was told to dismount and led between tents and huts and fires. The men stared at her, and she knew how strange she must seem to them. A fairly well-dressed man coming into this desperate place of cold and starvation willingly, with no prior warning, odd occurrences indeed.

     They stopped in front of a slightly less battered tent and a slightly less thin man stepped out.

      “Alexander Hamilton,” the man said.

     Sam nodded. “Samuel Jones.”

     “I do hope you have an important reason for coming here. The men aren't looking too happy to see you.”

     She smirked. “They will be. I'm the son of a merchant who deals in clothing and fabric. My friend is a… merchant who deals in gunpowder and the like. Rounding out our little trio is the son of the man who directs the food supplylines for the British. I figured our positions might make us of some use to you…”

 

     Alexander had nearly forgotten to breathe. Here this man was, casually offering not only weapons and clothing, but _food_ for the starving, freezing army. He couldn't remember the last time he, or anyone else at Valley Forge, for that matter, had been warm and dry and full.

     “We all would've joined the Revolution before,” says the man, “But I had to care for my dying father, P is rather trapped by her duties, and H can do more from her current position. I'm still the only one who can actually physically help. I daresay it seems like you need it.”

      Alexander was too busy having a minor breakdown to comment on the woman (probably illegally) selling weapons or that Jones had only mentioned the other two, both women, under single-letter names. Three merchants were actually volunteering to actually sell things to the Continental Army.

     “Price?” he managed to gasp out.

    Jones fixed him with a very serious look. “I don't want to be repaid in money- but I do want you to listen to what I may say. My name is not quite a true one, so it is used to publish or sign what writing my friends and I do. Consider our advice.”

    He could only gape and nod. “Then, uh, you might want to see the General.”

 

    Sam’s heart was pounding. She had no qualms about using her late father's empire to help the Revolution, nor did the others, but meeting George Washington was more than any of them could have hoped for. The women having the General as even a passing acquaintance- how valuable could that be?

 

    “General Washington, there is someone here I think you ought to meet,” says Hamilton. When George looked up, he was surprised to see a glint in his aide’s eye that he hadn't for the longest time.

    George waved a hand. “Bring them in, then.” Hamilton nodded, and he and another man stepped into the tent.

    “I'm Samuel Jones, sir,” said the newcomer. “It's such an honor to meet you.”

     George raised an eyebrow. “And I assume that is not your given name?”

      Jones shook his head. “I'm afraid it is not, sir, but it is the name under which I stop being a citizen and start being a Patriot. Under my true name, I could not help you without the Redcoats finding out.”

      “Why might that be?”

      Jones gave a wry smile. “I've just inherited my father's merchant empire. He was a quiet Patriot, but still obvious. The British don't suspect anything of his shy, submissive ‘nephew’ who took over. His son disappeared, suspected dead.”

       George nodded, more to himself than anything else. “Alright then, why are you here?”

       “Like I said, I just took over my father's trading business…”

 

       Alexander watched in awe as Jones repeated his spiel. “...You see, a great many essays by less privileged people are published under the name of Samuel Jones. All we ask is that you, along with Congress, take into consideration our advice.”

       “Let me get this straight,” General Washington said, ignoring the well-hidden snort. “You and your friends are willing to supply this army at the price of contemplating what you say?”

       Jones gave a sad smile. “We're not exactly in well-off positions. Life under the new government might not be wonderful, but we are hoping it will be better than under the British.”

      “Hang on, you're the son of a rich merchant!” burst out Alexander before he could stop himself. Washington opened his mouth, but Jones just shook his head.

      A small, knowing smirk played on his lips as Jones replied, “No.The bastard son of a rich merchant. Father just didn't want my half-brother to inherit, the lazy twit.”

 

        _Bastard daughter,_ Sam corrected herself silently. Another strike against her in the long run.

       There was a heavy, awkward silence before she clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Back to business! What say you, General Washington? Are you willing to listen to the people's voices?”

       Washington nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, we will accept your help.”

       “Excellent!” she exclaimed. “I should be able to get at least some warmer coats and blankets here in next week or two. How many, do you think? 9,000? 10,000?” she asked, holding down the shit-eating grin threatening to show.

       “10,000, or thereabouts.”

 

      They were walking to the edge of camp when Sam stopped in her tracks. Hamilton gave her a strange look, but she just called out, “My god! Charlie?”

      A frail-looking man in a threadbare coat glanced up, disbelieving. “Sam?” he responded. “What the hell are you doing h-” His sentence was cut off by a coughing fit. She rushed towards him and laid a hand on his forehead.

      “No fever,” she mused. “Is your throat sore?”

      He nodded, and she sighed, standing. After a moment of hesitation, she whipped off her outermost coat, and wrapped it around him. “Charles Jonathan Smith,” she ordered, “Get inside. The wind is too cold. And get others in there too, the shared body heat will warm up the place. Katie would never forgive me if I just let you die.”

      Charles nodded gratefully as he stood. “Say hi to her for me, will you? And thank you, Sam.”

      Sam turned to see Hamilton staring at her. “What?”

      “You just gave another man your coat,” he pointed out.

      She shrugged. “I gave my sick, freezing, starving friend my outermost coat. I hope you would do the same in my position.”

       A week and a half later, a familiar horse cantered over the horizon. The rider beamed down at the sentry. “Get Hamilton. Tell him Jones and his supplies are here.”

 

       John Laurens watched as the messenger panted something about someone named Jones, and his now normally serious friend let out a whoop.

       “Laurens, I'll be back!” Alexander yelled, streaking outside in an instant.

 

     “I'd have been here sooner, but there was a bit of an unexpected addition to the load- I brought boots. Not nearly enough, but at least enough for the men here who are wrapping their feet in rags or are barefoot,” Jones said, waving towards the wagons stopped at the bottom of the hill.

     Alexander did his best to not let out the giddy laugh threatening to burst from his chest. From the General’s expression, he was doing the same.

      “H is rerouting the supply train, staffing it with Patriots. They'll be near sometime soon, and I'll join them and bring them here. We should arrive next week, maybe the week after. Soon.”

 

      Laurens had let his own giddy laugh out when Alexander had dragged him over to where the coats and shoes and blankets were being handed out. “See?” Alex had exclaimed.

      “How in the world did you manage this?”

      Alexander’s face hurt from smiling too hard. “Wasn't me. Thank the General, and Jones.”

      “Jones? As in Samuel Jones?” Laurens asked.

      Alexander nodded, and Laurens’s eyes widened. “Wow. One of the Sams himself offers us help. Incredible.”

      At Alex’s raised eyebrow, Laurens grinned. “Shared pseudonym that wrote scathing abolitionary pieces, and against the British. Legend says that some of the Samuels are actually escaped slaves, or women, or both.”

      “Woah.”

      “Yep.”

       “Look alive, sunshine!” called the mounted rider. “Get Hamilton, tell him Jones and co. are here!”

 

      The messenger timidly poked his head through the tent flap. “I- I'm so sor-sorry to interrupt, but Jones is h-here.”

      George exchanged glances with Hamilton, and they took off. Lafayette and Laurens, of course, decided to follow.

 

       “ _Bonjour_ , General, Monsieur Hamilton, Monsieur Lafayette, and whoever else is attempting to be subtle. Frenchmen who go crashing through underbrush are not subtle, but at least you are somewhat better.”

      Sam tried not to laugh as some very expletive-ridden French came from behind a bush. Washington and Hamilton had both turned

to stare, but Hamilton quickly flushed at some of the words the bush was spewing.

        _“Monsieur Lafayette, je ne crois pas c’est une chose appropriée à dire avec votre présent général. Regardez comment énervé pauvre Hamilton est!_ _(Mister Lafayette, I hardly think that is an appropriate thing to say with your general present. Look at how flustered poor Hamilton is!)_ ” she exclaimed.

       Hamilton swung his head back to look at her. “ _Vous parlez Français?_ _(You speak French?)_ ”

      “ _Jemti parle aussi couramment comme ce morceau filthy gueule de feuillage là-bas._ _(I’m as fluent as that filthy-mouthed piece of foliage over there,)_ ” Sam retorted.

      Washington raised an eyebrow, and they all shut up. “While I'm sure you will all massively enjoy speaking a language I cannot quite understand, I believe Mister Jones has something important?”

      Sam nodded. “The supply train is here.”

      

      Cheering accompanied Sam’s next appearance with the gunpowder.

 

       “You saved their lives,” Hamilton pointed out to her. “You saved all of our lives. You let the French have enough time to get even more supplies.”

       She smiled softly. “ _Oui_ , I suppose I did. But now it is time for me to disappear.”

        “What do you mean?” he demanded.

        Sam simply shook her head, and mounted her horse. “You ever need me, give a letter to Samantha Johnson. She'll be working as a typesetter at the New York newspaper soon enough. After the war.”

        “Wait!”

        “Tell Laurens I'll see him when he gets his battalion. Goodbye, Alexander!”

      “And yet again, I save your ass,” a familiar voice says as John watches the straw dummy on horseback get shot full of holes.

      Profuse swearing sounds from the trees, and a group of Redcoats form up on the path and march on, their leader cussing them out the whole time.

      Jones flips them the bird from where he, John, and his force stand. “Fucking Lobsterbacks.”

       “How did you-”

       “I didn't know until I saw a flash of red. But that's besides the point,” Jones replied.

      John raised an eyebrow “Why are you here, then?”

      “The world turned upside down. _The world turned upside down!_ We've done it, Laurens!”

        Sam sauntered into town, smile widening as she heard the wild assortment of drinking songs pouring from the tavern.

        She listened as a new voice chimed in. “Somehow we've lived to see our glory,”

        A shocked laugh rang out, accompanied by rapid-fire French and an excited whoop of, “Laurens!”

        “Alexander, Laf, Herc!”


End file.
